


With the changing wind

by honeynoir (bracelets)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:26:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bracelets/pseuds/honeynoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Doctor cleans out a house. (Spoilers for 7x05.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	With the changing wind

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers** for _The Angels Take Manhattan_.
> 
>  
> 
> Written for [this Amy/Rory comment-a-thon](http://ladymercury-10.livejournal.com/46296.html) and [captaintish](http://captaintish.livejournal.com/)'s prompt: _the Doctor, Brian, the Doctor goes to see Brian, maybe clean out the Ponds' house._

It’s still raining, Brian’s house is still small and neat, and Brian still looks sad. The Doctor shoves his fists into his bottomless pockets and worries some flowers with the heels of his boots. “You called me. How did you get my number?”

“I did, and months ago, I might add.” Brian appraises the weather beyond his doorstep, and zips his jumper. “I used their phone. It's pre-programmed. You’re number one.” 

“Cleaning house, you mentioned.”

“They have... had a lot of oddities, is what I mean. What if I pick something up and it’s a music box from the future and I can’t turn it off? Didn’t want to get someone in and Amy’s parents couldn’t...”

“Oh, I see, yes. ‘Course I’ll help.”

Five minutes later, they materialise on the Ponds’ lawn; the usual spot. Brian has a felt-tip pen in one hand, a radio in the other, and a stubborn look on his face. “Right,” he says. “I’ve done the plants and the fridge already.”

The Doctor very nearly refuses to leave the TARDIS.

 

It’s not like the Ponds have left the odd engangement ring or a few half-eaten meals behind; they’ve left their entire lives. The house is still and dull and it has too many rooms, now. 

The Doctor tries not to look at anything. The radio supplies an endless stream of not-really-appropriate tunes, while Brian hums along brokenly and sprinkles biological washing powder into an array of buckets.

Systematically. Efficiently. Yes. Good. Compartmentalise. Focus. He could do that, too. He was the Doctor, after all.

So, he ties his jacket around his hips and carries tiny skirts and burly jumpers and folds plates into newspaper and bins shrivelled oranges and disconnects the tv and unhangs van Gogh reproductions and rolls up carpets and coils fairy lights and puts all the mops and rakes and plastic swords in a corner and wrestles curtains and resists the urge to break absolutely everything, and when he’s done, Brian’s still scrubbing the floor.

In the lounge, they make piles of clothes and shoes and blankets, piles of lamps and bowls, piles of books and CDs; to be given away. 

 

The Doctor focuses only on stacking DVDs (and solving a few of the longest equations he can think of), when he happens to notice Brian sinking into a wayward chair. “Brian?”

Brian nods to the piece of paper in his hand. “‘Milk. Bread. Apples. Something for lunch’. Found it under the microwave. It’s in Rory’s hand.”

The Doctor swallows and looks back, just the once. “Brian, I understand.” Which is as far as he gets. He drops the films, quick-steps to the side, snatches his old Marshal’s hat – still on the wall – and throws it on; props are good. “Did I tell you about the time I wore this? Met a horse called Susan. Now, Susan...”

Brian isn’t listening; and he certainly isn’t asking when or where or about any other Susans. 

The Doctor lobs the hat towards the clothes pile and turns every one of his non-too-few senses to the present and the future and what would be-could be-must not be. “I’m sorry, Brian,” he says, for the seventy-third time.

 

The Doctor ventures further, not quite despite himself, into all the cupboards and drawers and bags; he gathers all Rory’s work clothes and all the bottles of nailpolish and ‘Petrichor’ and ‘Custard’ and ‘Hot Italian’. 

He finds ‘Pandora’s Box’ and notebooks full of anatomy and physiology, dried sunflowers and pictures of cars, sketchpad after sketchpad and quite a lot of Laurel and Hardy memorabilia.

He finds bags full of children’s clothing and toys still wrapped in plastic and a sheer amount of Mels. 

And he finds – “Slideshows on DVD! Hundred-year chewing gum, Nvfj-ean mosaic, a hologram from New New Canberra, a jacket from Tara, and what I can only assume is a sonic torch of some sort!” Really, far less oddities than the Doctor would have expected. Which was, in itself, odd. “You take these.”

Brian only looks slightly nervous. “No, I couldn’t.”

“I want you to have them. They’re yours. ”

“In that case,” says Brian, looking stubborn again, “I want you to have the cake topper.”

When the piles are swaying and the boxes are overflowing and the washing powder is effectively everywhere, the Doctor is frowned out into the garden, into the not-yet-folded chairs. Brian offers him a sandwich. The Doctor takes it; he’s probably not eaten in a while. At least no one mentions it was Rory’s favourite.

 

The Doctor stumbles into the TARDIS with his arms full of dolls. Amy’s dolls, Rory’s dolls. He’d considered giving one or two to the Ponds/Ponds Too, really, but... well, he didn’t quite want to.

He puts the dolls on top of the chest of drawers in the always-lit room with the double bed. The Raggedy Men and the Amelias and their days-that-never-came among the Centurions and the dinosaurs and the red-headed police Barbies and the plastic ambulances and the blue boxes. In the very, very middle (pinpoint accuracy) he puts the cake topper.


End file.
